


A 'Merry Little Christmas'

by Tierfal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Puns, Christmas, Family, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam share some Winchester Christmas traditions with Castiel. Castiel has come to understand that such gestures are very important to humans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A 'Merry Little Christmas'

**Author's Note:**

> For my very very very very dear Miz J, who wanted Cas and Sammy and Dean and Christmas. ♥;

Castiel has learned a number of things from the Winchesters over time.

He has learned how to lie—which is an interesting process of layered deception, wherein a decision to mislead manifests in acts of linguistic elasticity to make an invention appear to be the truth.

He has learned how to kill—how to prioritize his own safety, his long-term objectives, and the continuance of his material existence over the sanctified life of another being.

He has learned how to compromise—how to subjugate his conscience; how to silence the din of his doubts; how to settle for less than he had hoped and how to swallow hot coils of disappointment.

And he has learned loyalty—a devotion so bone-deep, so _soul_ -deep, so crushingly _complete_ that he feels pure in pursuit of it even when he recognizes logically that he is nothing quite so clean.

He has also learned that apparently the actions known as ‘pranks’ are meant to be a source of amusement despite the fact that they seem to have no discernible purpose beyond inconveniencing their target.  Sam still does not seem to have forgiven Dean for replacing Sam’s toothpaste with Philadelphia Brand Low-Fat Cream Cheese while the younger Winchester was asleep.

Castiel is still struggling to untangle the rationale of this particular instance: is the brand of cream cheese significant?  Surely that ought to be an intentional pun on Philadelphia’s reputation as the ‘city of brotherly love’, but Dean simply snatched the first tub he saw off of the shelf of dairy products on the evening that Sam was unwise enough to permit Dean and Castiel to do the grocery shopping.

There are other concerns: does the difficulty of the setup determine the quality of the prank, or is the end result more important?  Dean went to a great deal of trouble to empty the toothpaste from the tube and to funnel in the cream cheese to replace it; does that alone make the act a ‘good prank’, or is the amount of agony in Sam’s howl of discovery a more accurate measure of success?  On that note, how should one make qualitative measure of agony?  On a scale of one to hellfire, Sam’s frustrated scream could not have registered at more than a two, but given the somewhat contradictory concept that pranks are ‘supposed to be fun’, Castiel suspects that a truly painful prank would be frowned upon.  To that end, prank exchanges seem to be required to escalate—at what point does the ‘fun’ cease?  Where are the boundaries?  What are the rules?

In general, humans don’t seem to appreciate the value of rigidly-enforced tenets for standardized behavior, which puzzles Castiel.  Over time he has come to appreciate the powerful sense of liberation that accompanies a course of action unfettered by the dictates of others—what he can’t comprehend is why human beings seem to _prefer_ that freedom.  Being told what to do is comparatively easy: humans are usually lazy, and exerting one’s free will tends to be a lot of work.  Their insistent rejection of predestination is baffling.

It is also purposeless, given that the Design accounts for every resistance and rebellion that could ever be made, but Castiel has stopped trying to convince Sam and Dean that the fabric of the universe is woven to God’s pattern, and the threads they unwind will twist precisely the way that He intended all along.  What must happen does.  There is no reason; there is no justification; there is no human concept of ‘fair’.  There is only the loom.  God is looming.

Castiel thinks that’s very funny.  Wordplay is really growing on him.

“It’s frigging _Christmas_ , Sammy,” Dean says.  “Let’s just call a truce.”

“A spruce truce,” Castiel says.

“Cas,” Dean says, “no.”

“It’s fir the greater good,” Castiel says.

“Cas.”

“Of course you are entitled to your o-pine-ion.”

Dean scrubs both hands slowly down his face.  Castiel has observed a great many human hands, and he thinks Dean’s may be the finest that he has seen so far.  They’re exceedingly well-formed.

Sam snickers.  “Fine.  Christmas truce.  Hey, Cas, you have any snow puns?”

Castiel considers.  “I could probably generate a flurryous storm if I didn’t flake.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says, louder.  “ _No_.”

“Not ‘no’, Dean,” Castiel says. “‘Snow’.”

Dean grits his teeth.  “Don’t make me sit you on top of the tree, because I _will_.”

‘The tree’ is really more of a shrub, but at least it is decidedly not deciduous; perhaps that is what counts.  Castiel assesses the small pot in which it resides, the small origami ornaments Sam made and hung using the sewing kit (after which he turned Dean’s sleeping pillow into a pincushion, which was ‘hilarious’), and its slightly precarious position on the Formica table.

“I suppose it would give me a fractionally better vantage point for viewing the room,” he says, “but maintaining my balance would require all of my concentration.”

Dean looks as though he may be in physical pain; did Sam leave one of the pins in that armchair as well?  “I wasn’t serious, Cas.”

“Oh,” Castiel says.  “I see.”  He doesn’t really, but humans find that figurative statement very reassuring.  “You didn’t specify.”

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, dropping onto the couch, “I always wondered how many of those Christmas songs about angels are… y’know.”

Castiel does not know.

Sam pauses.  “Accurate,” he says.  “How many of them are accurate?”

Castiel folds his hands.  “Do you have a particular song in mind?”

“I dunno,” Sam says.

“I am _so_ not singing any freakin’ carols,” Dean says.

“You don’t have to,” Sam says, getting up again and crossing over to the dusty radio by the window.  “I doubt it’ll be more than five minutes before we get one about angels.  Lots of people seem to have an angel fetish.”

He looks at Dean in a way that seems to be pointed, but Castiel can’t figure out what the point is.

There isn’t much time to ponder the conundrum, however; Sam turns the dial and raises the radio volume until Christmas music fills the motel room.  Castiel crosses the carpet and settles on the couch, laying his hands on his knees, to listen closely.

“Angels We Have Heard on High” was clearly penned by an individual who had never heard an angel; the same principle applies to “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing”.  There is a possibility that the writer of “Noël” heard a bit _too_ much of real angel voices, as the emphatic repetition seems a bit excessive.  What Dean calls the ‘Hallmarktastic’ Christmas conceptualization of angels appearing as stars, however, is intriguing; all things considered, that isn’t too far from the reality, which presents many fascinating possibilities for how the grain of fact facilitated a pearl of poetry.

Castiel is not sure what to make of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.  Fortunately, there are no angels in it, so his opinion does not seem to be required.

“This is frigging lame,” Dean says.

“Shut up,” Sam says.  “Guess what I got?”

Dean strokes his chin in an unconvincing pretext of contemplation.  “Ninety-nine problems, and a bitch ain’t one?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Sam says.  He goes to the fridge, opens it, and presents a carton with a flourish.  “Convenience store eggnog!”

“Jackpot,” Dean says.  He shifts to face Castiel on the couch, and his knee bumps against Castiel’s thigh.  “We don’t have a whole lot of Christmas traditions and crap, but…”

“Convenience store eggnog,” Sam says, bringing over the carton, three glasses, and a spoon, “with extra bourbon.”

“A Winchester family recipe,” Dean says, fishing a bottle out from between the couch cushions.

It turns out that Dean is much more amenable to singing—or perhaps a more accurate term would be ‘caterwauling’—Christmas songs when he has consumed several glasses of Winchester Recipe Eggnog.  He is also much more easily amused; and well before midnight, his eyelids begin to droop.

Sleepiness is a strange and compelling phenomenon.  Jimmy Novak’s memories of sleepiness are tinged by half a dozen muddled emotions: frustration; relief; contentment; comfort; resignation.  It seems to be a confusing sensation even for those who experience it, and Castiel can’t quite wrap his intellect around it.

Do humans ever think about how extraordinary they are?  Castiel doesn’t think the Winchesters do.  Part of that, Castiel guesses, is psychological; and part of it is that they simply don’t have the time.

Evidently humans are also extraordinarily susceptible to Winchester Recipe Eggnog.  Momentarily Sam has draped his remarkably long body over one end of the couch, and Dean has collapsed on the other with his head in Castiel’s lap.

“S’no place like home for the holidays,” Dean mumbles.

“‘Snow place’?” Castiel says.  “That’s very good, Dean.  I think you’re getting the hang of wordplay.”

“Shut up,” Dean says.  His eyes are closed.  He has lovely eyelashes.  Castiel strokes at the ones on the right, and Dean wrinkles his nose.  “Damn it, Cas.”

“I believe it’s closer to the opposite,” Castiel says, “given the occasion.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, and the words are slurring together quite a bit now; clearly no one ever instructed the Winchesters on the subject of diction.  Or at least not on the subject of diction while intoxicated.  Dean sighs, nestles a little closer towards Castiel, and mutters, “Merry Christmas to you, too, Cas.”

“ _Both_ of you shut up,” Sam says.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“G’night.”

“Shut _up_.”

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” Castiel says.

He has learned a number of things from the Winchesters over time.  He has learned how to appreciate small solaces and moments of quietude.  He has learned how to live like his time is brief and precious but brimming with potential.

And he has learned how to love.


End file.
